


Wet streets are as quiet as a church hall

by Garotte8Goodnight



Series: Acts of War [1]
Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1989 New York, Gen, New York City, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 15:25:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6615739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garotte8Goodnight/pseuds/Garotte8Goodnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack has a no good very bad day, made only worse by the dumb punk with the dark eyes who gets him arrested under a bridge for something he had no part in. This is going to be the longest night of Jack’s miserable life. </p><p>Or, Brock is angry at the world. Jack is the unwitting accomplice to the destruction of public property. A love (war) story in three acts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wet streets are as quiet as a church hall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redux (sian22)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian22/gifts).



> Written for the wonderful Sian22Redux as part of a Tumblr prompt spree. I’ve not had as much fun writing in a long time - thank you for the headcanon additions and the labour of love beta-ing!!! Title from the Stereophonics song ‘Graffiti on the Train’ – which was written after Kelly Jones mistakenly thought children were trying to break into his house. In reality, they were trying to get to the railway behind it so they could spray graffiti messages on passing trains. After he caught them and they explained, he wrote a song. 
> 
> Fic is set in 1989 in New York, the year Brock had his comic debut – this is important for situational perspective given the mess New York was in at the time, please see endnotes for discussion on headcanon details / a free history lesson with your daily dose of boy love.

 

* * *

**Act 1 – In which Jack Rollins is done with everyone’s bullshit**

* * *

 Jack is tired. Not the nice kind of tired; the warm sleepy kind that means snuggling into fresh crisp sheets after a long day of work, falling asleep satisfied with what he’s accomplished today. No, Jack is the kind of tired that comes with little to no sleep for three days, with paperwork piling up on his desk for cases he has no interest in; the kind of tired that means 12 cups of coffee and he’s just a split hair from murder. Which, you know, as a member of local law enforcement is not ideal for his career prospects. Jack figures 9pm on a Tuesday is not a particularly good time to re-evaluate his life choices - all the little decisions that seemed unimportant at the time but lead to where he is right now: stuck in traffic onto the turnpike at the Lincoln Tunnel helix.  –Which, of course, is most definitely not helping his current mood.

He considers for a minute the fact his Harley, the Crossbones Soft-tail (thanks for asking) is easily manoeuvrable through the traffic with a little skill.  Which Jack has in spades. He knows it’s probably a bad example to set, weaving across lanes through slow moving traffic, especially when on the way home from a job that involves prosecuting the kind of people who would commit such misdemeanours. He’s about three red lights and ten minutes of not moving from making a really bad decision here.

He’s almost grateful for the excuse when the radio clipped to his belt crackles with an alert from the   boss; he’s needed across town to pick up files for the next morning’s work on the latest Cosa Nostra crack cocaine bullshit - and while normally he’d protest at being used as a messenger boy, hell, he figures it's reasonable justification to ignore the ‘no U turns’ sign at the next opportunity and hug the hard shoulder back into the city. Horns and fellow motorists be damned.

\--

He curses every bureaucratic decision ever made that the files are being held in some nobody precinct out past Long Island City, though he can see the logic in it to a certain extent – of course they’re not gonna keep them on Manhattan Island - a stone’s throw off the lower East Side or Little Italy you’re practically offering them up on a silver platter for some bought cop to tamper with, or worse, make them disappear. It just sucks that even with the added benefit of being on a bike, by the time he’s made it through the Queens Midtown Tunnel and is heading up Greenpoint Avenue towards Sunnyside it is already 21:26pm - and he just wants to eat and go the fuck to sleep already.

He turns onto Queens Boulevard and gives his thanks to whatever deity he doesn’t believe in that the traffic isn’t bad outside of Manhattan - that most people have already headed home for the night. The roads here are almost empty and he can finally enjoy the ride, the cool of the night air, and let go of the tension that’s settled between his shoulder blades. That is, until he nearly topples sideways off his bike when he spots the small figure balanced on the scaffold that clads the Viaduct.

Jack is so sleep deprived that at this point he’s ready to put this down to hallucinations, fetch the files, head home, and pretend this never happened. Unfortunately if the Navy taught him nothing else, his time in certainly taught him firstly, that Jack Rollins is still sharp as a tack even after five days with little to no sleep, and secondly, that sometimes stupid shit like this turns out to be important - and is not to be ignored just because he’s tired and grumpy.

It’s with a groan of resignation that he pulls over and kills the engine, leaning his bike against the crumbling concrete as he dismounts and pockets the keys. He can spare five minutes to find out what the hell the little shrimp about to get creamed by a train is up to.

The scaffolding is due to come down soon; August they’re saying, they've been working on the viaduct for the last four years replacing track on the 7 line and fixing up the concrete structure. There’s just the exterior left to finish up, smooth over the facing and make it look all nice and pretty to go along with this gentrification shit they’re trying. It won’t work, Jack’s near sure of it, something will have to give first –New York is almost at breaking point, and no amount of making things look pretty can fix the fact there’s something rotten at this city’s core. Still, he appreciates them trying – that blasted viaduct looked like it was about to give up entirely and fall to pieces all over the roadway. That would certainly make the traffic worse.

He has to applaud City Hall, for thinking they can just plaster over the cracks in this city - but it’s just putting band-aids on an open wound; he’s almost ready some days to call it a lost cause and head south for opportunities elsewhere.

Still, as long as crap is happening in this town there’s work to be done for men like Jack; busting their balls tucking those things that go bump in the night safely away behind bars. Or back into their beds. Like the small black clad figure clinging onto the struts of the metal scaffold and glaring down over his shoulder at him mistrustfully.

\--

“Kid, what in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Jack almost takes a step back when the slim figure whirls around, throws him a fierce look that’s all large dark eyes and a mouth twisted in a half snarl. Almost.

“What’s it to you?”

The voice is deeper than he expected, carries in the quiet of the night where the city is settling in to sleep, and despite the obvious Queens accent something is rounding out the edges of his vowels in a way that reminds him of the old man at his favourite pizza place. Border between Little Italy and the Lower East, Jack started going there when he was investigating the joint as a front for organised crime. Sticks around now because the owner seriously knows his way around a brick oven.

Jack shrugs, but raises his hands with his palms turned out and doesn't move any closer. The boy looks perilously balanced on the concrete overhang, small hands clutching at metal struts, even if his stance is confidently loose and graceful. He tries to catch the kid’s eyes when he speaks, wants to impress upon him that he doesn't have any ill intentions here;

“Just a concerned citizen, that’s all, that doesn't exactly look safe…”

He gets a smirk in reply, and those dark eyes flash in the evening light where he’s peering down at him.

“I said… What’s it to you? You a narc?”

Jack shrugs, notes the black bag slung over the kids shoulder and hopes the boy wasn't planning anything too malicious; “I'm not a cop.” It’s not even a lie, he isn't a cop.

The kid runs those dark eyes up and down Jack’s figure in a way that screams ‘I haven’t had an easy life, so fucking excuse me for not taking your word on that’, and Jack is momentarily grateful his side piece is locked up safely back at the office - even if he does miss the weight of it at his hip. Something about Jack’s outfit must help him pass muster though, the black leather bike jacket perhaps? Either way, the kid turns away with a tsk of disinterest and returns to the task at hand; that is, scaling the last five feet to the tracks.

“Not even gonna tell me what you’re risking life and limb for..?”

The boy pauses and says with what Jack assumes is supposed to be righteous indignation; “Listen jackass, don’t get me wrong, but if you are not a cop, why do you actually give a shit why anybody does anything?”

Jack has to restrain the small smirk that’s just itching to upturn the corners of his mouth; the kid sounds so... angry.

“Maybe I just want to know what I'm supposed to tell the papers when you get your ass pasted by a train, think of that? I’m your only witness after all.”

The boy’s shoulders start shaking, and Jack tenses when he thinks for a second that it’s muscular strain, that the kid is going to fall. It’s only a few moments later when the quiet sound carries down to him and he realises no, the boy is laughing. He simultaneously preens at the fact he’s already started winning him over, and silently mocks himself for his instinctual reaction, what would he have done anyway? Caught him?

\--

Jack hears the sirens before he sees the police cars, and for a moment he’s tempted to run; this is probably going to involve paperwork and he really just wants to get home to bed already. He sees the startled scared look on the kids face though, where he’s still perched around ten feet above Jack’s head, and if he isn’t just a sucker for dark scared eyes.

He figures it’s probably too late anyway when he sees the car pull up across the entrance to the alleyway that he dumped his bike in – he may be desperate to get home, but he’s not about to run from the cops on foot. Fantastic, now there’s going to be procedure and the humdrum of protocol. Jack closes his eyes for a second and pictures the killer lasagna that’s sat in his fridge waiting for him.

What Jack is not expecting is for one of the approaching cops to grab his wrists and slam him up the brickwork of the viaduct face-first, his hands twisted behind his back; he could have resisted, of course, could have stood steadfast, as immovable as a brick wall. He didn’t, doesn’t, because one – he really wasn’t expecting that and two – the last thing he needs is to cause more paper work by assaulting a cop or causing interoffice drama between local law enforcement agencies.

New York has been a mess for years, falling apart at the seams - and men like Jack and these two jobsworth assholes are barely holding the threads together. The last thing he needs is to put further strain on working relationships; there’s enough lawless zones in the city already without Jack violating every rule in the handbook - no matter how much he wants to choke this tough guy out.

So instead he leans against the brickwork, exactly where he’s put, and waits while the other officer pulls the kid off the bridge; kicking and screaming, but careful not to wriggle too much where he’s tucked under the blonde cop’s arm, as the officer climbs back down the metal struts. It’s only 20ft from the tracks to the ground - and they’re only halfway up besides - but still, at least the kid has some sense of self preservation.

He waits until everyone has feet planted firmly on solid ground, notes how the officers ignore the kid’s protests as the second cop confiscates the bag full of spray cans; tossing it in the boot of the cop car while restraining the boy one-handed. Then Jack sighs with the air of a man who would be grateful to avoid as much paperwork as it is possible to get out of, and notifies his captor; “Agent Rollins, badge is in my wallet. I was talking the punk down.”

He gets a surprised huff in response, and is grateful when the officer steps back - releasing him long enough to grab his wallet from his back pocket which… shit. He remembers taking it out to get change for the shitty dining truck opposite the office building, the one that serves what has to be both the strongest and the most disgusting coffee known to man, and he can’t remember stuffing it back in his pocket after. Which means his wallet, along with his credentials, is languishing in the dark on his desk half an hour away, wondering why he’s abandoned it.

Fucking fantastic.

“Yeah buddy, Agent Rollins, of course you are.”

Jack has little else he can protest with and resorts to closing his eyes and knocking his head against the reinforced window with a resigned groan as he’s cuffed and shoved in the back of the cop car along with the sullen looking kid.

~*~

* * *

  **Act 2 – In which the world is shit**

* * *

 “Not gonna talk to me, kid?” Jack raises an eyebrow and ignores the scoff of disdain he gets in reply. This whelp might think he’s tough now, but Jack has been round the block a time or two. Plus, this kid has nothing on his instructors, making him wait for shit he wants. Jack can be patient.

He busies himself with counting the tiles on the far wall; counts them in astronauts, a three syllable beat to mark the passage of time - given his watch has been taken along with his other personal effects.

_One astronaut, two astronauts, three astronauts…_

It takes almost an hour, Jack is on his third recount of the wall, and his three thousand two hundred and forty-third astronaut, before he’s rewarded with a long-suffering sigh and the kid sags against the wall, turns his head to face Jack.

“What would you want to talk to me for anyway?”

The look he’s giving Jack is quite obviously a challenge; his face twisted into something not pretty, eyebrows set somewhere between a glare and a grimace.

Jack rolls his shoulders where he’s leaning against the cold tiles; he couldn’t care less for faux-aggression and posturing. He takes a while to reply, he’s free to study the younger man now that he’s turned towards him, half bathed in the yellow orange light that seeps through the bars of the small window set high above them. Jack looks and assesses and is struck by two things; first, the kid isn’t perhaps as young as he first thought - he’s small and lean sure, but he’s around twenty at a guess and vaguely familiar. Jack is just over thirty himself so he’s not exactly old, just… not as young as he used to be. Secondly, the boy’s eyes aren’t as dark as they appear. They’re like a hazel, a burnt gold, if he was a pansy ass poet he’d spout some shit about them being the color amber that the leaves turn in Central Park in the fall.

“Because we’re gonna be stuck in here for at least another ten hours, and you don’t look ready to sleep any time soon.”

\--

The silence falls again after that, but it’s different. Jack’s waiting for something but he’s not sure what.

“What’s your name?”

That ‘too deep’ voice again, little more than a whisper now though, kid’s obviously curious. Jack doesn’t hesitate when he replies.

“I didn’t lie to the cop; Agent Jack Rollins. Waiting for my asshole of a boss to wake up in the morning and check his damn answer phone.”

The boy hums to himself, like that was the answer he was expecting.

“The thing is Jack, you’re one of them, right? I don’t know if you’re a regular cop or one of them special guys that sit in vans or whatever. But you look like the ex-military type, some of the guys round where I grew up have that look - too sharp between the ears.”

Jack nods, he can’t do anything else. Not now the kid’s plucked up the courage to talk to him, or maybe he’s just bored of the silence, the hell does Jack know.

“Well see Jack, that’s why I figured type like you don’t want to be talking to me anyway; you’re a suit, someone puts a gun in your hand, tells you where to point it, what the bad guys look like – it’s not your job to question it, just to go find them and get the job done.”

Jack wants to protest that, tell the kid he’s not some dumb street cop, his job is to investigate and decide who the bad guys are. He decides to stay silent though; the boy’s looking at him with those damn eyes, appraising and assessing, and he doesn’t want to say something that will make the kid stop talking. So he nods and keeps his expression carefully neutral. Kid must take that as some sort of sign because he’s curling down against the wall to see him better, expression still sharp from across the empty space between them.

“My Mama was Italian right? Only one on the birth certificate, but I’m guessing he was German if she gave me his last name; not much else you’d find in the Lower East Side. But she weren’t born here. 20 years old she had me, born in 1950 in some ass end of nowhere in Italy. And I figure, Jack; my grandparents left Italy when she was just new cuz she wasn’t a year old on the Ellis immigration papers. Five years after the war and they left Italy in carnage, right?”

“So my grandparents, they take their kids and they leave for America to give their children and their children’s children a better life. Look where it fucking got me Jack, hey, look where it got me.”

“I mean, sure, the theatre’s different – dirty concrete and rusted metal over vineyards and cobbled streets - but the thing is Jack, it’s still just men with guns shooting kids who maybe look a little different, who grew up in the wrong zip code, you know? It’s still war – my grandparents just traded up one battle zone for another.”

\--

Jack is quiet for a long time while he decides how to reply to that; because the thing is, the kid isn’t wrong. There is something terribly rotten in this city and it’s been building and building for years – like too much hot air in a pressure cooker.

“Think we’re all like that kid? Big men with guns pointin’ at the first thing that moves?”

The dark haired boy shakes his head.

“I don’t think anyone is like nothin’, and I think that’s the problem.” His mouth twists ironically, it’s not a sneer but its close. “Everyone’s ‘I’m alright’ Jack - no call to get their hands dirty.  Everyone’s just out for himself. But the point is, it’s all… wrong.”

“So maybe you aren’t some big shot with a gun, but someone is; and if no one fixes things it’s just gonna stay the same or get worse and worse until something real bad happens.”

Jack sighs and knocks his head back against the cool tiles, because yeah, the kid isn’t saying anything he doesn’t already know. The real problem with this city, is there’s this massive dichotomy between each side of the ball park – this chasm and you’re either on one side or the other. The people on each side have become so estranged from one another that they can’t recognise themselves as the same anymore.

Damage control and crisis mitigation can only last for so long – everything is stretched out like an elastic band, straining at the edges – and eventually those men in three pieces and ties, the ones working on Wall Street, living on the Upper East Side, sat in chairs at City Hall... Eventually something’s gonna give or snap, and they’ll realise it’s too late to do much of anything.

“So what do you suggest kid?”

Jack isn’t expecting the bared teeth and the bite in the boy’s words.

“Quit calling me that, I’m not a kid. I’m almost 20.”

Jack resists the urge to laugh because yeah, okay, this little asshole is a kid; but he’s sat in a jail cell and he’s still a teenager and something about that screams wrong. So maybe it makes it a little easier to pretend he’s not.

“First, my name is Brock Rumlow and I lead the Savage Crims right? Neither of those names are ones you should go forgetting Agent Jack Rollins.”

Jack raises an eyebrow but doesn’t interrupt. The kid, Brock, has this air of defiance to the set of his mouth and his eyes are lit with something that Jack isn’t sure is anger or excitement. Something wild though, the kids backed into corner and his brain to mouth filter’s gone AWOL about half an hour back.

“And second, I think people need the wakeup call. I think there needs to be a plan in place on how to start dealing with some of the issues in this city, in this country, maybe people lose a little of that liberty they’re so fucking desperate to hold onto, maybe people on the other end have to stand up and take a little damn responsibility. But there needs to be something to make them want it right? They need that push, to be scared enough at how bad it gets, that they accept the solution and stop trying to hide with their heads in the clouds like they’re so fucking above it all.”

“Wow.” Despite himself Jack is impressed; instead of a hooker with a heart of gold he’s landed himself a thug with a sense of moral philosophy. “You planning on running for mayor or something?”

“Naw. Just…” The kid looks frustrated and turns away.

Brock obviously believes in every word he’s saying, and Jack isn’t sure whether the kid’s thoughts on any of this are actually his own or parroted from the mouths of older friends. He has a point, and a damn fine one too, but that’s just not the way the world works. Jack scrubs a tired hand over his face and takes the time to think before he speaks.

“Problem is Brock, people don’t behave rationally when they’re scared. I thought I recognised you, you work at Speranza right? You think the mess can be made better by flashing the pan and shaking things up. Get the pieces to fall in the right place like you’re calling out orders in a restaurant and yelling at the slackers who just get in the way.”

Brock looks surprised to be recognised, especially here in Queens when Jack knows his little gang run the lower east; knows that someday the kid will probably end up a part of the Cosa Nostra bullshit that landed Jack himself in this cell on his way to get those stupid files. A few short brutal years later and they could be sitting on opposite sides of a damned metal table and wouldn’t that be a shame.

“Tell me Brock, when Tonio makes carbonara does he keep stirring things up while the heat’s on below?”

The boy shakes that dark head; “No, of course not – makes a whole big mess and the ingredients separate.”

Jack offers him a grin; “Exactly! So you know you can’t fix things by stirring ‘em up more. Have to integrate them without letting them settle into those distinct levels, and you have to know how to make that play, right?” He waits for the kid to nod in agreement before he continues, “So, rather than talking about what men with badges aren’t doing, why aren’t you showing them?”

The kid shrugs, but there’s a furrow appeared between his brows; “No offence to an upstanding guy like yourself, but I’m not an educated asshole who can put on a suit and tie each day. Not even the local precinct cops would take me without a GED. It’s kinda… this is gonna sound stupid, but it’s what I was doing tonight.”

Jack stays silent, tilts his head and waits for the boy to continue. A sigh, and a few passes of a small hand through that mop of dark hair later, and he’s rewarded for his patience.

“There are rumours okay? A government group they’re saying, taking guys like me and training them up real good. Guys who have… let’s say an unusual skill set. Don’t need to be educated, just need to be willing to learn and want to make that change in the world.”

Brock shrugs, “thing is, no one knows how they find you. So, I was waiting for the train so I could graffiti my callsign on it. So they knew I was looking.”

Jack stares at the boy in askance and a little confused, he’s not really quite sure what to make of that, though impressed by the kid’s ingenuity.

“So what, you were just going to spray your name and phone number on the side?”

Jack is pleased with himself when that does rouse a laugh from the boy, eyes squeezed shut and nose scrunched.

“Like, they call me Crossbones, so. Anyone from the wrong side of the tracks would know that mark and where to find me. Kinda hoped when you showed up you had something to do with it, shadowy Government group and all.”

Jack can only shake his head and look over at the now pouting boy almost fondly, “Nah, m’sorry Brock. Just your run of the mill Agent here, think they’d contact me though? God knows I’m long due a promotion.”

The boy smirks at him where he’s sprawled against the opposite wall; sighs and drops his head back to examine the ceiling. “You know, I’m not even sure I’m disappointed.”

\--

“Do you believe in God, Jack?”

Jack tilts his head to one side and appraises Brock thoughtfully.

“No, I can’t honestly say I believe in anything in particular. My people have traditions, you know, old world stuff. But a higher power..? I prefer to put my faith in men, not in higher beings that may or may not want to listen to me.”

Brock nods in agreement, “the thing is Jack, I figure my mother was pretty devout, Italian, Catholic... And it didn’t seem to do her nor me much good.”

Jack nods his head in support, and Brock breathes for moment before he continues;

“So yeah, you have... a point, I guess. Some men choose God, to stand in hallowed halls and put their dreams in the hands of astral beings… I couldn’t do that though. I figure, people go to church to find their place in the world right? To find some sense of order in it all, some reason for being."

He falls quiet, but Jack doesn’t look away. This kid is carrying the weight of something on his shoulders, though he doesn’t know what. He almost startles when the younger man continues, he wasn’t expecting the dark haired boy to speak again for a while, to break the silence that’s settled over them.

“Thing is, I figured if I’m going to find my place in all this then it’s not going to be within the stone walls of a church. So I went to the streets to worship, and I did it with balled fists not with hands clasped together, because I don’t think much of men as something to put my faith in either.”

Jack nods, he couldn’t really argue with that even if he wanted to.

Says something about the state of the world though, when he’s locked in a cell with a down and out kid arrested in the very act of trying to save the world that’s chewed him up and spit him back out again.

He finds himself hoping that this group exists, Jack’s not stupid - he’s heard the rumours too, if only for Brock’s sake. The world could do with someone that passionate about anything fighting its cause.

\--

It’s after midnight now and Jack has relocated to the small metal bunk on his side of the room; Brock hasn’t made any move to do the same, just sits on the cold concrete floor, staring through the bars of the window. He looks like he’s shivering where his form is outlined by the yellow-orange glow, seeping in from outside along with the chill.

“Hey, kid?”

Jack hates being the nice guy, but he can maybe make an exception, just this once. Brock looks up at him from where he’s all folded up on himself, hums questioningly in reply. He looks tired.

“Cold?”

Jack gestures with one arm to the space beside him and is surprised when the kid nonchalantly gets up and pads over to tuck himself into the gap. He honestly expected the boy to protest he was fine, but he figures what the hell and lays back, tugging the kid with him so he’s tucked in the crook of his arm with his head resting against Jack’s chest.

It’s not particularly comfortable for Jack, and he’d guess that Brock isn’t much better off, but hey, he figures at least it’s warmer than either of them sleeping alone. Not like the City is about to waste a dime heating the drunk tank out in some nowhere precinct. Bet the night guard on the front desk has a fan heater though.

~*~

* * *

  **Act 3 – People can fall together while the world is falling apart**

* * *

It’s not noise that wakes Jack, it’s the morning light creeping in between the bars; sunbeams dancing across their sleeping faces, warming skin everywhere they touch. He opens his eyes slowly and tries not to shift too much, conscious of the warm heavy weight sprawled on his chest that’s huffing soft breaths against the dip of his throat. Kid must have shifted in the night, and Jack takes a minute to ponder why that didn’t wake him; military sharp senses should have had him on his feet the moment his breathing was impeded. He must be going fucking soft.

He doesn't let it bother him - the kids sleep warm body is hardly that much of an inconvenience – he’s small and lean and not exactly heavy. Though Jack has to admit, most people are small and lean compared to himself.

Brock, mumbles in his sleep despite Jack’s attempts to regulate his breathing and not shift too much. He blinks open confused hazel eyes, lifting his head so he’s almost nose to nose with Jack.

“Hi.”

It seems to take the kid a few minutes to remember where he is, long moments spent looking at Jack with those dumb honey-colored eyes as though he holds all the answers. He sees the moment of recognition though; when the lights come on in too tired eyes and the dark-haired youth remembers where he is. What Jack wasn’t expecting was the kid to groan obnoxiously and assume his previous position; face buried against Jack’s chest so he doesn’t have to look at his surroundings.

For a second Jack is overcome with the fleeting urge to tighten the loose hold of his arms where they’re looped around the kid, offer comfort with physical presence. Then he remembers who the hell he is and internally scoffs. Right sure, _he’s_ going to take up cuddling random asshole future-hardened-criminals as a hobby? Start Jack Rollins Home for Wayward Youth? Sure.

So he doesn’t do anything, just lays there and soaks up the sunshine and the warmth of another body pressed against his own. It’s almost nice.

\--

They both jerk upright and spring apart an hour later or so; must be about 8am and morning shift is arriving. Jack can smell the coffee from here and is overcome with a fit of jealousy. They don’t have to wait long before a cop, maybe a few years older than Jack but already with lines on his face, comes down the hall whistling with keys swinging at his belt.

“Agent Rollins.” He smirks through the bars and Jack is suddenly grateful for the metal in his way, helps control the urge to punch the idiot in his dumb smiling face.

“Am I getting out of here now or what?”

The man sighs and unlocks the cell, almost reluctantly Jack notices. Must be the most fun this ass-end of nowhere precinct has had for a while; some young dumb agent gets himself implicated without his badge on him and his supervisor, already tucked up for the night, won’t pick up the damned fuckin’ phone.

“You’re free to go. Both of you. There’s a man in reception for you.”

The officer jerks his head in Brock’s direction, who only blinks back at the man, before he turns on his heel and leaves back in the direction he came. Brock and Jack are free to follow him.

“C’mon kid, let’s go get our shit.” Jack sighs, stands with a groan and shakes out aching bones and tight muscles. His back is going to give him hell for at least the next few days.

They’re passed back plastic trays with their effects in by a woman with a mess of curly hair and a smile that is far too cheerful for this time of morning, and sign the stupid bits of paper to say they’ve received them. She nods them both on their way, says “have a good day gentlemen!” as though they are some kind of package deal now, and Jack rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything. It’s not worth it. He just wants a coffee and a damn pastry.

There’s a young man waiting in the foyer and Jack assumes it’s the guy sent to deal with Brock, his social worker or something. But the guy looks uncomfortable in his ill-fitting suit, and the tense set of his muscles and sharp gaze immediately set him apart from some run-of-the-mill kids’ counsellor. Jack has a gut for things like this, and his suspicions only worsen when it’s clear from the look on Brock’s face that he’s never seen this man before in his life.

Jack eyeballs the man carefully, and is surprised when he gets a smile in response.

“Agent Rollins? You have time for a coffee too?”

Jack looks at the kid, top of his spiky black hair barely brushing Jack’s shoulder, looking up at him with angry amber eyes that say ‘I can take care of myself’.

He shrugs, “Yeah, I got time.”

The man nods, smiles with teeth too white and sharp, holds open the door to the station for Jack and Brock to leave.

“Good, we’ve gotta proposition for ya.”

The three of them walk out into the hustle and bustle mess of New York first thing in the morning; the city waking up with a groan of steel girders and the slap of feet on pavements, concrete warmed by morning rays, and smog rising as engines come to life. In the distance Jack can hear the clang and rattle of train carriages on old iron tracks.

 ~*~

**Author's Note:**

> To establish personal canon as I intend to write more in this universe at a later date; it was 1989 when Brock Rumlow had his comic debut as leader of the Savage Crims gang in New York’s lower East Side – and he was supposedly very young at the time. Given that he’s never been assigned a canon-age, I’m claiming he was born in 1969 - which would make him 19 almost 20 when he was running with the Crims, and 46 almost 47 now – about 4 years younger than Frank Grillo actually is. 
> 
> I would push back his birthday a little further, but for the fact I don’t want to contradict the comic canon that he was still a teenager in 1989, while heading a notorious street gang. I think it’s an important facet of the character, given this was the New York that Brock - an abandoned child raised in foster care and in criminal street gangs - grew up in: www.nydailynews.com/services/central-park-five/climate-new-york-1989-article-1.1310861
> 
> Jack Rollins also isn’t assigned a canon age, though actor Callan Mulvey is around ten years younger than Grillo; born Feb 24th, ’75 to Grillo’s June 8th, ’65. I’ve taken artistic liberty, and decided to reverse that age difference here, making Jack the older one.
> 
> Thus my Rollins was born in February, 1959 – making him 57 in current continuity, and 30 at the time of this fic.  
> The history of the 7 line on Wikipedia was most helpful, thank you Wikipedia. I chose the 7 line both because of the history of the viaduct - which would have allowed easy access to the trains, due to scaffolding where they were still laying new lines in 1989 - but also because of its known association with emerging graffiti art during that time period; en.wikipedia.org/wiki/5_Pointz.


End file.
